“Sinbad Leader calling all Sinbad aircraft. Commence your run, commence your run. Execute.”
The twelve bombers swept over the target area, the main refining facility a priority target, as was the rest facility of knowledgeable technicians and engineers who kept the whole of Baku running.
Mixed loads of five hundred, two fifty, and incendiaries left their bomb bays, adding to the damage that had already been wrought by the Liberators.
The cracking towers, previously unscathed, were transformed into useless metal, high explosive commencing the job of destruction, greedy flames fuelled by widely available hydrocarbons completing the job.
One Mosquito staggered as it was struck by 12.7mm bullets, rolling over and adding itself and its hapless crew to the inferno at the distribution head, killing over thirty fire-fighters as they battled the flames.
One Aircobra had slipped Green Flight, and it bored in on the bombers.
Arkwright, lazily circling and directing his squadron, saw it in a brief moment of clarity.
“Sabre leader to Sinbad aircraft. One bandit eleven o’clock low, closing fast. Am attacking.”
Bringing the Beaufighter around in as tight a turn as he dared, Arkwright drove his aircraft straight at the gap between the hunter and the hunted.
The Mosquitoes were fast aircraft, but bombing at low-level did not afford them this advantage, and they were going to be in harm’s way unless Arkwright could interpose himself.
Beaufighter, Aircobra, and Mosquitoes converged inexorably.
Had he been able to translate his thoughts for the benefit of the casual onlooker, then the reasons for his manouevre would have been made clear.
But he didn’t, or rather couldn’t, so he just rose lazily into the air, leaving his partner still scrabbling on the ground.
Rapidly gaining height, he decided to avoid the strange goings-on to his left and move away, bringing him straight into a line of convergence with a number of aircraft unaware of his presence.
Another easy and powerful surge gained him extra height, and he became aware of something closing rapidly on his left side.
A swift angling of the neck told him it was worth avoiding, so he dropped his right wing and came round in a tight turn.
To the children of Khojahasan he was ‘Old White’, an object of affection, and to the smallest, one of some fear.
He had lived on Khojahasan Lake for years, returning every year with his mate, for ‘Old White’ was a C.cygnus; a Whooper Swan.
Fifteen kilos of solid male swan crashed into the shattered cockpit of the Beaufighter, and transformed both Old White and Squadron Leader Arkwright into an unidentifiable mess, spreading through the cockpit and the fuselage beyond, and in ‘Old White’s’ case, only after his solid body had demolished the pilots seat and smashed the observer beyond.
The young pilot of the Aircobra had watched, both horrified and fascinated, as the huge white swan had flown into the Beaufighter. His inexperience cost him his life. The uncontrolled enemy aircraft spiralled away and he reacted late, the heavy aircraft clipping his Aircobra’s tail plane, sending him into a death dive.
Both aircraft crashed in the oil storage area, the Aircobra igniting a full storage tank previously spared from damage.
The huge blossom of fire marked the end to the raid, and the air combat, both sides drawing off to head for home and mourn comrades lost.
On the ground, the dying continued into the night, as the fire brigade and civilian volunteers strove in vain to control spreading fuel fires, more facilities falling victim as every minute passed.
Timed to coincide with the Baku attack, units of the USAAF took off from the fields in Northern Italy, and headed for the Ploiesti area, the oil-rich heartland of Roumania.
In 1943, a mission had been flown from Libya with the same purpose, generally considered a costly failure.
The 1945 version had one advantage.
The lead bombers belonged to the RAF’s 9 Squadron, and had a special capacity that had not been available during the previous ‘Operation Tidal Wave’.
9 Squadron had flown from their base in France to Northern Italy, where they were loaded with the Tallboy 12000lbs earthquake bombs. Along with 617 Squadron, the famous Dambusters, 9 Squadron was equipped and trained to deliver the huge bombs with precision.
The theory was simple.
Hit or miss the target, the bombs would penetrate the earth and create shock waves that would affect the facilities integrity by disrupting pipes and services, affecting the solid bases of the storage facilities and the refineries, and generally disturb everything, making the target vulnerable to the mix of high-explosives and incendiaries that the USAAF aircraft would drop immediately afterwards.
In this instance, the Soviet air defences had not been unduly weakened, and covering fighters rose early to meet the approaching bomber force.
Escorting Mustangs interposed themselves, but the Lavochkin’s and Mig’s smashed their way through and downed four of the RAF heavy bombers.
The remaining ten Lancasters dropped on the main targets.
Two bombs plunged into the Concordia Vega refinery; another four shared themselves equally between the Asta Romana and Columbia Aquila refining facilities.
Of the remaining four Tallboys, only one went wide of the mark, plunging into the Ploiesti sewage works, its three companions expending their considerable power in and around the storage facilities at Româno-Americană and Unirea Speranta.
The first bomb to land on the latter site could not have been bettered. It penetrated straight through the largest tank, burying itself deep in the ground, before exploding with spectacular results.
The pressure fired thousands of gallons of petroleum spirit skywards in a huge orange wall that rose, curved over, and then plunged back to earth, igniting everything in its path.
Any USAAF bombers depositing their loads on Speranta would waste their time, as the entire facility started to consume itself, further failures in pipe work and storage tanks adding more products to the expanding fires.
In 1943, five Bombardment Groups of the Eighth and Ninth US Air Forces had attacked and, in most estimations, failed to permanently affect the production from Ploiesti.
In October 1945, three Bombardment Groups of the Twelfth US Air Force caused more widespread and deep-seated damage than previously thought possible, and at a much lower cost.
Whilst the heavy bombers had been harried all the way, in their flight over Southern Europe, Mustangs from all European commands had accompanied them, and inflicted heavy casualties on the defending Soviet air force, although not without significant losses themselves.
The difference this time was the lower defensive capacity of the Soviet air force combined with the spectacular deployment of the Tallboy bombs.
Ploiesti had its production capacity reduced by over 60% in as many minutes.
The image of the scantily clad young peasant girl started to fade, the sound of her inviting voice being replaced with the urgent sounds of knocking on his door.
Marshal Zhukov had taken to his bed early, well satisfied with a day during which his armies had sundered the Allied line in three places.
The knocking grew more urgent, and he shook off the last vestiges of deep sleep and shouted at whomever it was to enter.
Malinin, his tunic undone and clearly also roused from his slumbers, burst into the room clutching message slips.
“What’s got you so rattled, Mikhail?”
The Marshal reached across for his own tunic, and he stood, unsteadily at first, as his hand detoured to the proffered reports instead.